


Latch

by ADevilsHunger (Dream_tempo)



Series: In the Lonely Hour [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Armpit Kink, Cock suckling, De-Aged Derek, Dirty Talk, Foreskin Play, M/M, Man stink, Masturbation, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-cest, Snowballing, Sweat, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, light watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 02:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1922469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_tempo/pseuds/ADevilsHunger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles indulges the cocky kid with his flirtations, but also with a fully outfitted iPhone—the two of them trading music and YouTube videos and what Derek strongly suspects are dick pics. It’s really touch and go, but so has everything been this fall.  For fuck’s sake, they found him in a crypt in the desert folded around a younger copy of himself and that wasn’t even weird enough to merit a freak-out from any of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Latch

**Author's Note:**

> Late night porn inspired by fiercely ignoring canon and listening to Sam Smith sing his poor, sad, pretty little heart out. Not to mention, my recent Ian Nelson affliction and the need to see Stiles getting tag-teamed by grumpy, muscly woobs. (Totally un-beta'd. Sorry!)

Derek’s utterly unsurprised when he comes home, sets his keys on the table, and is immediately assaulted by thundering base vibrating the ceiling above him. Turns out, he kind of forgot how much of a tool he was in high school, and his teenaged self has been loving catching up on the Top 40’s. Derek’s been firm in his belief that the whelp shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near future events, but Stiles didn’t agree, and unfortunately they took to each other like ducks to water. Probably because they’re both kind of asshole-ish and way too flirty for their own good, but he really doesn’t like to look at it too closely.

It’s disturbing on so many levels. Especially when he can scent Stiles’ arousal, and so can his younger self, and all he does is shoot the pale boy an amused look while very obviously flexing his arms and chest. They’re not subtle about it, they’re not even as ashamed as everyone—that’s right it’s not just Derek, he swears—thinks that they should be with all the lip licking and heated looks and t-shirts “accidentally” riding up way more often than they naturally should.

Anyway, point is, Stiles indulges the cocky kid with his flirtations, but also with a fully outfitted iPhone—the two of them trading music and YouTube videos and what Derek strongly suspects are dick pics. He’s caught Stiles trying to teach his younger self all the new fad dance moves and it was decently amusing to watch the uncoordinated boy flail in comparison to his much more graceful student, until it somehow devolved into Stiles getting grinded on like this was a rave and Derek just couldn’t watch how his hips stuttered and his mouth fell open and his eyes got this honeyed, drowsy ease as he held on to the teenager’s hips and gave as good as he got.

Isaac was supposed to be watching his younger self—or as Stiles had taken to calling him, "DB", even though the rest of them followed Derek's lead with the less succinct, but also less embarrassing Derek Beau, which is strange to say and not react to, since the last time he heard it was when he family was still alive —but Derek couldn’t pick out his heartbeat, and he doubted it was just the music covering it up. He’d been spending a lot more time at Scott’s since Chris left, since Allison… well, since Allison. He can’t exactly blame the kid, so he just does his best to be there for him when he’s needed. It’s really touch and go, but so has everything been this fall.

For fuck’s sake, they found him in a crypt in the desert folded around a younger copy of himself and that wasn’t even weird enough to merit a freak-out from any of them. They’ve been trying to figure out if he’s some kind of time-traveler or a pod person or something, but it’s all been really slow going and a lot of bullshit. He’s tired of it, he just wants his life and his space back, and maybe a sense of normalcy that he’s been missing ever since him and Laura came back from New York. They’d actually been getting to a good place…

Before he can even go there, something thuds against the ceiling and Derek’s sure he’d heard glass shattering. Huffing, he strips off his jacket, toes off his boots, and bounds up the spiral staircase, ready to chew that little shit out like he’d been wanting to do for weeks. He runs a quick hand through his hair in front of the door, figuring he’d look slightly more parental with slightly less product in it, and he should probably think of getting some looser jeans because an authoritative dad— or older brother, or whatever the hell role he was playing here— should not be wearing denim that lifts his ass to a noticeable angle.

Steeling himself, he shakes his nerves out, splaying his hands and rolling his shoulders, before turning the knob and slipping in. He stops halfway through the doorway, eyes adjusting to the dark and ears burning as they’re immediately filled with hitched breath and little sounds like someone’s dying. He knows, absolutely for sure that he should leave immediately, because even though he’s technically seen it—done it, he has no desire to catch his younger self masturbating. He stops mid-retreat though, because even he can’t lie to himself well enough to pretend that that’s what this is.

Because there’s the distinct slap of skin on skin, low groans, and muttered appraisals. They’re filthy, yet delicate sounding things, only barely made out over the nonsensical lyrics and heavy synth. “Doing so well for me, baby. So pretty, so sweet, so good for my little cock.” Derek swallows heavily and tries to just blank out the fact that his jeans are getting tighter and his palms are starting to sweat. He shouldn’t—God he shouldn’t, this is so beyond fucked up.

But he does, shit he does. He flashes his eyes and immediately makes out his younger self cradled in Stiles’ lap, back facing Derek. Sweat has matted their hair and Derek Beau is trembling, quaking—his developed but nubile muscles twitching convulsively. He smoother than Derek is now, though still hairier than most teenage boys, the most noticeable from this angle being the thick, dark thatch of hair dusting his lower back.

As though his eyes are being tracked, long, thin fingers that he knows intimately card through it and scratch at the skin, making something rumble low in his chest without his own consent. Derek immediately blanches and his eyes fly up and there it is—there _he_ is. His heart clenches and his mouth goes dry and he feels like he’s going to be sick. Stiles is nosing at Derek Beau’s temple, chin rubbing against the curve of his shoulder, free hand gripping the back of his head tightly, and he’s staring right at Derek. “There you are, oh God, there you are.” He whispers it in the shell of DB’s ear, but Derek feels in his stomach that it was directed at him.

He can’t move, no matter how badly his brain is screaming to get the fuck out of there, his knees are locked and his hand is white knuckling the knob where he’s still holding it. Derek Beau somehow hasn’t noticed him, and when Derek finds himself wondering how in the hell that can be when _he’s_ the other werewolf in the room, but that’s when he notices how Stiles is moving. His torso is stationary where he’s holding DB against him, apparently propping the other boy up, but his hips are rolling, languid and liquid, and Derek’s cock twitches when he sees small, swollen, pink flesh disappearing into lush, hairy ass cheeks.

“I’ve got you baby. Gonna make you feel so good.” DB and Derek whimper at the same time and Stiles’ breath hitches in response. Derek can see his hips snap twice, sharp, out of rhythm, and Derek Beau cries out at it. His palms are sweating and he feels like his eyes are opened too wide as he keeps himself from pressing the heel of his hand to his aching groin. He can’t help his eyes from wandering, from taking in how good DB’s dusky skin looks against the pale cream of Stiles’, counting the beauty marks scattered around his body, shuddering at his soft, furry belly littered with little, round, bite-marks.

He can smell that they’ve been at it probably the whole evening, not even pretending like he’s trying to stop himself as his nostrils flare and he breathes deep. The room’s pungent—even for a teenager—reeking of sweat and cum and—his heart stutters when he catches the sharp tang of urine. He bites harsh enough to draw blood and keep himself from moaning, but Stiles does it for him, staring at him with those dark, endless eyes when he gets too eager again and his little dick slips out of DD.

He jackrabbit-fucks against the other boy’s crack— like an over –excited dog— for a few seconds, before catching that pliant rim and sliding inside again. Derek Beau whimpers pitifully and Stiles shushes him, eyes leaving Derek for the first time since he entered and going soft, brows drawing together. His lips soften around a pout and he presses them to DB’s head, affectionate and loving. It makes a heat spread through Derek’s stomach, even as it tightens and his hips jerk forward of their own volition. Stiles gently cradles DB’s head, and after pressing their temples together and locking eyes, he guides it to an open armpit and the young boy writhes as he digs into the ripe, furry thing, nuzzling deep before licking wetly.

Stiles holds him there and cries out, hips punching now instead of that leisurely roll and Derek can’t imagine he’s even anywhere near DB’s prostate, baby-dicked as he was, and yet the younger boy is practically sobbing in pleasure. He can smell when Derek Beau just can’t take it anymore and spills—the rank odor in the room suddenly blooming back to life instead of crusty and stale, being sharp and creamy. Stiles keens, looks right at Derek, and rolls his head back as his hips grind harshly into DB’s ass and then still, twitching minutely as he empties inside him.

Derek almost collapses against the doorframe and watches as his younger self slowly comes back to life, bending Stiles back at the knees until he’s lying prone of the bed. Much more active in the aftercare than he was while they actually fucked, he gnaws hickeys into Stiles’ jaw, suckles at his nipples like a child, and wetly kisses his chest and tender belly clean. Derek can see—knows because it’s what he’d do, even at this age—the way he cups his tongue to hold the cum, slithering back up Stiles’ body to stroke his cheek with the back of his hand before sharing it with him in a messy kiss that has the silvery liquid dribbling over their lips and chins.

Derek had thought he was done, was hoping he was done, but once that feverish exchange dies down, Derek Beau licking Stiles’ face clean and just swallowing the second time, he moves back down again, and Derek has to keep from throwing his head back against the wall as he delicately licks at the little, flaccid cock between Stiles legs—rosy head nestled against fuzzy, peach balls, uneven and honestly wrinkly. It’s small, noticeably so— even though he’s young, it doesn’t have much place to go— but somehow that makes Derek’s breath catch, and it seems to work for DB too, because he’s nosing at it lovingly, kissing it sweetly, taking the whole thing onto his tongue and humming in quiet pleasure.

Derek slowly inches out the door as he watches Derek Beau kiss thick thighs, rub his hands along hairy calves, and over the arches of long feet. “You’re so good to me,” he hears himself mutter, not even an octave lower than his voice currently is, and he wishes that it was coming out his own mouth. With sweat along his brow and a shiver rippling through his back, he rushes to the bathroom once he’s on the ground-floor and throws the door shut and locked behind him.

He doesn’t have to pop the toilet seat up because DB never puts it down, and he braces himself over it with one hand against the wall—the other fishing in his jeans to pull himself out, and he’s thankful he hasn’t worn underwear for close to five years now. Groaning and pressing his face into his shoulder so he doesn’t have to look at himself—even his own dick—he quickly works at himself, dry on the outside, but foreskin making wet, guppy noises when he pushes it all the way over his cockhead and the folds stick together with the weight of the precum.

He yanks hard and fast and twists his wrist at all the right times, devolving into fucking his fist quickly enough. Without his conscious permission, he hears Stiles’ voice in his head again, sees his hips roll, and DB’s ass clench. He digs his face into his own armpit, breathing deep and trying to recall all the notes he’s missing from the room upstairs. But the orgasm isn’t coming on thought alone, he needs just a little more, and even as it makes his face heat, he pisses hard into the bowl, stomach clenching at the scent.

Derek’s so hard he can let go of his dick before he’s even finished and still keep hitting water. His free hand slams against the wall and he’s almost crying as he hitches a leg up and slides his fingers down—searching, probing, entering—and though it’s too dry and too fast and it burns, his sight practically whites out as he bites his arm harshly and splatters into the toilet. His whole body is shaking and he’s already starting to feel like shit as he opens his eyes and stares blankly at the wrecked porcelain—the drooling gob of cum that’s still hanging from his foreskin as his cock droops.

When he cocks his ear to listen, wiping at himself with wadded up toilet paper, he notes the music has turned to soft, acoustic indie, and that’s finally when the first tear rolls down his cheek.

Tucking himself away, zipping himself up, and washing his hands two—three times, Derek unlocks the door and pads into the main section of the loft, freezing as he’s wiping at his mouth with the back of his wrist. Derek Beau is just turning away from the fridge as he closes it with his ass, dressed only in an overlong grey and maroon BHHS lacrosse shirt. The bottom of his balls are peeking out from under the hem, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he hums along with the song floating down the stairs—Jenga stacking everything he’d put on the counter into his arms to carry up.

The shirt has Stiles’ jersey number on the back and when DB finally notices Derek, he flashes him a small, happy smile. He waves as best he can with the load in his arms and then heads up the stairs. Derek only barely keeps himself from doing an upskirt head crane.

He sits alone in the bed against the blown out wall, eating saltines dipped in mustard (the only thing left in the fridge, seriously he even took the Perrier that Stiles had called pretentious and refused to touch, apparently until now) and listening to the two of them call each other names and kiss softly. 

**Author's Note:**

> Planning to get all the boys together soon, but if y'all have any particular suggestions on what should be happening before/during/after, you should let me know here or at [my tumblr](http://drivenbyadevilshunger.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Two's Company, Three's a Crowd](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4544010) by [nameloc_ar_115](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameloc_ar_115/pseuds/nameloc_ar_115)




End file.
